


Nomads

by Sproings



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Character Death, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, fluff will happen eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-02-09 10:24:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18636250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sproings/pseuds/Sproings
Summary: Far from home, numb from the loss of his mother, Steve doesn't expect to find satisfaction in repairing the house he grew up in.He doesn't expect that his childhood best friend will still live next door, either, or that Bucky will be just as thoughtful and generous as ever.He does expect his friends to find a way to meddle, though. They always do.





	1. Chapter 1

Somewhere in Utah, Steve stopped for gas and turned off his phone.

As he'd packed, he'd imagined that he might feel better with every mile further away he got from the condo, and the hospital, and the cemetary.

It hadn't worked that way, though. He'd never been good at running away, and he couldn't ride faster than his grief could follow.

He turned his phone back on in Colorado, just long enough to send Sam a text, to let him know he'd stopped at a hotel for the night.

He _had_ stopped. But after three hours of staring at the ceiling, he'd paid his bill and gotten back on his bike.

In Kansas, the sun rose gray over empty fields.

His mother's final memorial was tomorrow, and he had a thousand more miles to go.

 

* * *

 

Bucky found out about it on the tow truck's radio.

_'Thirty percent chance of rain tomorrow afternoon, clearing overnight. And, sad news out of Hollywood, the family of Sarah Rogers announced this morning that she has died. Rogers, best known for her role in the blockbuster hit The P--'_

He pulled off at the next exit and sniffled in a McDonald's parking lot until his eyes were dry enough for him to see again.

For six years, Bucky had spent as much of his time as possible at Sarah Rogers' house, and she'd never once seemed to mind. She even seemed to like that he was there. After they moved away, he had missed her almost as much as he'd missed Steve.

He saw the sign at the high school a few days later, announcing her memorial, and he knew he had to be there. He didn't have any of the right clothes for it, but he would go.

He wouldn't have gotten her flowers even if he could afford them this month, because she had told him once, ever so gently, over a bouquet of dandelions, that watching them fade away always made her sad. Instead, he went through his old photos on his laptop and found his favorite one of her.

She was peeking out through the foggy kitchen window, with bright eyes and a mischievous smile, strikingly beautiful, of course, but it was the sweetness of her, the deep kindness, that really stood out for him.

He printed it as he got dressed, and tucked it in his pocket like a talisman.

 

* * *

 

It hadn't been Steve's idea to come. He would have talked his way out of it, if he could. But he hadn't known how to argue with someone who could smile as they planned their own funeral, so here he was.

It was a nightmare. A terrible blend of a few nurses who knew his mom from when she'd worked at the hospital, some people in suits who seemed to think showing up here would be good for business or politics, and adoring fans. Some of that last group were in costume, clustered in groups and wearing the signature braids from "The Pestilence" or her iconic blue lab coat.

It was exactly like working security at an event, only here he couldn't use his innocent surfer looks to blend in with a Hollywood crowd. Here he was the client, or would be, if there was any security at all. Not that there needed to be, he reminded himself. This wasn't a job, there hadn't been any threats, and the fans were just fans, here because his mother's work had touched them profoundly.

So profoundly that many of them were weeping, loudly, throughout the service.

Perched on a folding metal chair in the center of the high school basketball court, Steve closed his eyes and waited for it all to end.

 

* * *

 

Fuck.

He hadn't realized Steve would be here. Hadn't even considered the possibility. But here he was.

He looked...terrible, exhausted, unutterably sad, stoic, absolutely gorgeous. Steve goddamn Rogers. With his sun-bleached hair and his dark eyelashes, he looked like summertime incarnate, like he'd be hot to the touch but well worth the burn.

Fuck.

Bucky made sure he was last in line to go up and talk to him, but it still wasn't enough time for him to figure out what to say. 'I missed you' was true, but not what Steve needed to hear right now. 'I wish you could have stayed' was far worse. 'How are you' had obvious flaws.

He should've found something better to wear. His jeans were dark, but they were still jeans. He didn't even have on a tie. He hadn't thought it would matter. He hadn't thought he'd have to talk to anyone.

He could see the moment when Steve noticed him, the moment he recognized him.

His shoulders relaxed, just a bit, and the sharpness in his eyes eased. He pushed up his glasses and stepped toward Bucky, reaching out his hand, when a woman in a dark suit appeared and loudly cleared her throat.

"Excuse me, Steven," she said, her voice just as pinched as her face.

Steve's shoulders went right up where they'd been before as he faced her. "Yes Ms. Hardwick?"

Bucky started to step back, but Steve grabbed his sleeve and held onto him like a lifeline.

Either Steve had changed dramatically in the time since Bucky knew him, or he felt just as awful as he looked. He had never let anyone be his lifeline before. Bucky's stomach twisted at the thought of how much pain he must be in.

"We'll be closing the doors at 9:30," Ms. Hardwick said with a condescending sniff, "and of course all of the flowers and things have to be out of here by then."

"Alright," Steve said, turning back to Bucky.

She cleared her throat to get his attention again. "We need time to clear the tables and chairs so the team can use the space in the morning," she said pointedly.

Because a man grieving for his mother should care about fucking high school football practice.

Steve's mouth twisted at the corner, and he showed his teeth as he said, "I understand. I'm sure it won't be a problem."

Apparently convinced that she'd won Steve over, Hardwick spun away to bother someone else.

"Bucky," Steve said, exactly the way he used to say it. He shook his head and pulled him forward, into a tight hug.

Hugs weren't a regular part of Bucky's life. He'd never thought to regret that, before now, but as he tried to keep his metal arm from crushing the fabric of Steve's fancy suit, he felt awfully clumsy.

Not that Steve seemed to mind. He thumped his forehead against Bucky's shoulder and just...stayed.

After a very long, surprisingly comfortable time, Steve finally shuffled back, still holding Bucky's elbow, and said, "You got so fucking tall."

Under other circumstances, Bucky would have smiled at Steve Rogers sounding like someone's elderly aunt, but he couldn't bring himself to smile now. He didn't want to say "Sorry for your loss," or anything like it, but it seemed like he was required to.

He got as far as saying, "Steve…"

Steve shook his head, so quickly that Bucky wasn't sure he was aware he'd done it, but it was enough. "Uh, so," Bucky said, scrambling for a different subject, "is there actually a plan for the flowers, or do you still have all the same tells for when you're lying?"

"I don't know," Steve said, his shoulders drooping even further. "All I have is my Harley, but I'll figure something out. I'll have to."

"Sorry," Bucky said. Ugh, he wished he'd scrambled harder. "Um, you know, if you wait here, I can take care of it."

He owed Mrs. Rogers a lot more than that. Her and Steve both.

"I can--"

"Just--I'll be back in about twenty minutes. The principal can suck it up for that long," Bucky said, already pulling away. "I'll be right back."

He rushed out before Steve could argue.

 

* * *

 

Steve blinked away the black spots swimming in his vision and pulled his spine up straight.

Bucky was bringing...something. Something for the flowers. Bucky Barnes, from back in Greenville. Still here, after all this time. Bucky, with two hands now, and long hair, and sad eyes.

Bucky Barnes.

Mom would have been glad to know he came. Steve wasn't glad about anything, but if he could have been, then Bucky would probably be it. Bucky in a leather jacket, when everyone else was in polyester.

The low purr of an engine approaching made Steve open his eyes and stand up straight again.

It was a boxy truck, with a weird cartoon bee on the front and Bucky in the driver's seat.

Camper. It was a camper, probably. Bucky pulled up and parked, then hopped out.

He glanced around at the vases and wreaths that Steve had laid out on the sidewalk. "Let me guess. The principal had the football team carry all this out?"

Steve snorted. "No."

"Well, we should have plenty of room for them in here," Bucky said, opening the back of the camper.

"The flowers or the team?"

"Both." Bucky flashed a smile at him, then looked away. "Looks like it's just you and me though."

Steve picked up the nearest wreath and shoved it into the camper, between an orange and yellow built-in bench on one side and a matching dinette on the other.

He spun around to pick up the next wreath, but when he stopped, the world kept on spinning without him, and he had to grab the doorframe to steady himself.

Luckily, Bucky didn't seem to notice. He had gathered up a pair of over-filled vases and climbed into the camper, where he was tucking the flowers under the table.

Steve tried again, and managed to pick up the next wreath without landing on his face. He handed it in to Bucky, who arranged it tightly with the others.

They packed the remaining bouquets that way, mindless work that Steve was almost grateful for, except that he wasn't grateful for anything.

As he nudged the last few vases in place, Bucky said, "There should be room for your bike in here, if you'd rather get in out of the weather."

A curtain of hair was obscuring Bucky's expression, so Steve couldn't tell if the offer was related to the minor dizziness from earlier. But he could tell that the sky was clear, and the wind was still.

Bucky hopped out and gestured at the camper. "You'd save me from having to follow you in this thing. It doesn't exactly handle like a Harley."

He met Steve's eyes, but it didn't help. Steve wasn't sure what any of Bucky's tells were. He wasn't sure Bucky even had any tells. He wasn't sure what day of the week it was, or if he'd eaten breakfast or lunch that day. He wasn't sure about a lot of things.

He scrubbed at his eyes, but the black spots in his vision didn't change.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay."

"Okay," Bucky echoed. "Get in."

Steve got in. Bucky pulled the camper around to the bike, and as he jumped out Steve thought he heard him say, "Oh hello lovely."

The bike _was_ lovely. He remembered it being lovely. He remembered it being a joy.

"It's a 45?" Bucky asked, circling around it.

"Yeah, WLA, mostly original, with a few tweaks. It was a present from my business partner."

"Oh. Well, let's get it inside." Bucky opened the back of the camper and climbed up onto the bumper. He held on with his new hand as he reached up to grab something off the roof.

The new hand was covered by a leather glove, and a leather sleeve, but Steve got a glimpse of silvery metal peeking out between them before he caught himself staring and turned to put his bike in neutral.

A board. Long and wide. That's what Bucky had grabbed from the roof. He set it up as a ramp, and together they wheeled the bike up into the camper. Bucky patted it gently once they got it in place, the way he might have patted an old dog, right on the rainbow striped American flag emblem Steve had installed on the tank, back when Tony had first given it to him.

Steve thought he should say something, but instead he walked away, climbed into the passenger's seat and let his eyes fall shut. He could feel the camper move as Bucky closed up the back, and again as he got in behind the wheel, a loose rocking motion, lulling him like waves that faded away into stillness.

Stillness. He didn't know when he'd last had real stillness. Nowhere to rush to, no impending doom. The worst had already happened, he'd done his duty, and now it was finally quiet.

Very quiet.

He dragged his eyes open, in time to see Bucky hastily stop chewing on a cuticle and flash a little smile.

So he did have tells. That was good.

Bucky looked away and started the engine. "Are you staying at a hotel up in the city, or..?"

"Hmm? No, the house."

"The house? Your old house?"

"Yeah. The people renting it moved out sometime last year."

"So you're moving in?"

Steve shook his head. "Just getting it ready to sell."

"Ah." Bucky shifted the camper into drive and pulled away, to the exit of the lot, where a streetlight cast mournful shadows around his eyes. "Lucky it's close then. Less time in this smell. I guess it sat around on the lot longer than I'd realized."

The camper smelled a touch musty, maybe. Not bad. "Is it your dad's? From the shop?"

"Uh, it's mine, actually. I work there now." His lips twitched up, but it wasn't a smile. "And I'm still living at the house."

"Yeah? I moved in with Mom when...at the end there."

Bucky's expression fell even further. Steve tried to brace himself for yet another variation of 'Sorry for your loss', but he hadn't figured out how. He didn't know how to deal with his own misery, let alone anyone else's. Especially not from people who genuinely cared.

But Bucky only nodded and kept driving in silence, so Steve closed his eyes and let the stillness roll over him.

 

* * *

 

Bucky knew he was a fool, but he still tried to drive slowly and avoid every bump and pothole on the road.

Steve needed the rest, and Bucky was more than willing to annoy other drivers in order to give it to him.

God, he was a fool, though.

He eased into the driveway at Mrs. Rogers' old place, and wondered how long he could let the engine idle before the neighbors noticed.

At least this time he managed not to stare at Steve as he tried to figure out what to do next.

Instead, he stared at the house.

He could see the back of it from his bedroom window, if he ever looked, but he had stopped looking a long time ago.

The colors were the same, though it must have been repainted at some point. The tree out front was as tall as the roof, now.

Of course Steve wasn't moving into it. Nobody would move to Greenville on purpose. It wasn't the kind of place you went to, it was the kind of place you ended up.

He didn't want Steve to end up here, where it was cold and lonely and nothing ever changed.

"Buck?"

"Hmm?" Bucky shut off the engine. "Sorry. It's kinda weird to be here, is all."

"It is," Steve said.

"Maybe more for you than for me."

"Maybe a little," Steve said. He seemed to be trying to smile. Bucky appreciated the effort.

"C'mon," he said, smiling back. "Let's get weird."

He went around to open the back of the camper, and found that Steve had already climbed through and somehow slipped himself between the bike and the couch to pop the kickstand. They rolled the bike down the ramp together, easily accomplishing the job that Bucky had expected to be the hardest.

Steve punched in the code for the garage door, and it slowly rolled up, groaning and creaking.

"Sounds like it needs lube," Bucky said.

Steve turned to him, eyebrows raised, and snorted.

Bucky opened his mouth to...defend himself or something, but instead he let out a sharp laugh.

Steve snorted again, louder this time, and then cackled. "Lube."

"Grease, was what I--"

"Slllick," Steve said, giggling.

"Steve, no," Bucky said, seriously. "It needs penetrating oil."

They both cracked up at that, intense mindless laughter that only happens in the midst of grief.

Bracing himself against the wall, laughing almost too hard to talk, Steve said, "Astroglide."

"God, I told you it would be weird!"

"You were right!" Steve sniffed and swept his hair out of his eyes.

"I'm glad I got to see you again," Bucky said. "I mean obviously the circumstances--"

"It's good," Steve interrupted. "It is. I should be here for about a week, so if you wanted to get together and catch up some--"

"Yeah, absolutely," Bucky said, mortifyingly fast.

Steve dropped his phone into Bucky's hand.

Bucky blinked at it, bizarrely surprised at how warm it was and unable to think any further, until Steve said, "You could just come on over whenever, but it might be easier if we have each others' numbers."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Nice to know you're still a smart ass. I've missed that." He added his number into the contacts and handed the phone back.

"I missed you too," Steve said, with that same earnestness he used to have, so terrifying in the way it could inspire complete loyalty. It had worked on Bucky years ago, and it still worked now.

"Okay, well, let me know, I can...any time." Bucky spun around to grab some flowers from the camper and maybe never show his face again.

He got through the unloading and went home without saying anything horrifyingly embarrassing, unless 'Jeez, it's colder in the garage than outside' counted.

Plenty of other things counted.

As he sat sleepless in his bed into the earliest hours of the morning, playing his mindless block smashing game, he revisited each one of them. He was probably on his fifth loop of the night when he got a text.

Steve - _Hey_

Bucky - _Hey yourself_

Steve - _Your light was on, you ok?_

Bucky - _Yeah_

Steve - _Really._

Bucky huffed. Somehow the period at the end conveyed Steve's dry tone perfectly.

He snapped a picture of his pills and sent it over, along with _"Side effects may include…"_

He normally wouldn't mention his meds, but Steve was a weird combination of a long lost friend and a total stranger, which made sharing secrets with him dangerously effortless.

Besides, it didn't seem right to ask what was keeping Steve awake.

Steve - _Sorry_

Bucky - _Don't be_

There was a long pause, long enough that he wondered if maybe Steve had gotten to sleep after all, when he got a new text.

Steve - _I thought I heard her. I woke up and thought i heard her crying and then i remembered_

He couldn't imagine. He couldn't even imagine writing that text. Fuck.

Bucky - _Code blue?_

He winced a little, but it was what they always used to say. One of the consequences of meeting each other in a hospital, of being young and afraid and pretending they were neither of those things. It was how they always asked to see each other, when they had news to share, or candy, or a new game, or for no reason at all. They'd said it a lot, over the years they'd been together.

Steve - _You should sleep_

Bucky - _So should you. Is that a no?_

 

* * *

 

Steve remembered the way, of course, but even if he didn't, the light in Bucky's window shone like a beacon, calling him...not home, exactly. It had been though, once upon a time. Or near enough to one. He'd been as comfortable there as he'd been in his own home, back then, and now, Mom's house was like an aching void, while Bucky's room over the garage still had Bucky in it.

He made his way blearily up the stairs, and he didn't even need to knock when he reached the top. Bucky held the door open and welcomed him in with a wave of his shorter arm.

Steve hugged him. He was too tired to think twice about it, not until his face was buried against Bucky's collarbone, and by then Bucky was hugging him back, thank fuck.

"C'mon," Bucky said, nudging him further into the room. "You want to borrow some sweatpants?"

Steve shook his head and unfastened his jeans. He shoved them to the floor, careful to keep his pajama pants from falling along with them.

Bucky breathed a laugh. "Should've remembered you were a genius."

"Nope, just cold. I think the thermostat's broken. And the carpets are moldy or something. And there might be a raccoon. And the lights--"

"Hey. You lie down, and I'll get some paper so we can make a list, okay?"

Steve nodded gratefully and made his way toward the old couch where he used to sleep when they were kids, but there was a shiny silver arm on it.

Bucky tugged him toward the bed. "We can watch British Bake Off, if you want."

"Okay." The covers were irresistibly warm, and Steve made sure to leave room for Bucky, because Bucky was real and solid and here. "Nadia's season?"

"Nadia's season," Bucky agreed softly.

With a heavy sigh, Steve curled into a ball, and closed his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

When Steve opened his eyes again, sunlight was streaming through the window, and Bucky wasn't there. The silvery arm wasn't there either. But there was a notepad on the pillow beside him, with a list Steve hadn't written.

_thermostat_  
_carpet  
_ _raccoon??_

_Had to go to the shop. Text anytime.  
_ _PS - Look in the microwave_

The microwave would have to wait. First, Steve went to the bathroom.

The memory of how exciting it had been when Bucky got his very own bathroom at the age of 11 was so visceral that he felt himself smiling. It was definitely the happiest he'd ever been about a bathroom. It had seemed so grown up, for Bucky to have his very own space, with his own key and everything. Even if it was only so that his sisters wouldn't have to share a room anymore.

His sisters were gone within the year, off to live with his mom after the divorce, but Bucky got to keep the room, at least.

When Steve finished in the bathroom, he found the microwave, tucked away in a corner of the main room, beside a tiny dorm fridge and a two burner hotplate. More importantly, he found a plate of french toast inside, the warm scents of cinnamon and vanilla wafting out as soon as he opened the door.

Bucky Barnes. Goddamn. Steve hadn't dared to hope he'd see him again, let alone imagined he'd be just as kind and generous as ever. French toast for someone he hadn't seen in over ten years, _after_ letting him spend the night in his bed.

Steve would never understand how he got so lucky at making friends.

Which reminded him. He found his jeans and dug out his phone.

Thirty-five messages, not counting the ones he'd exchanged with Bucky. He'd known Sam would be worried, but apparently everyone else was, too. Even Tony. Even _Clint._

Fuck, this was too much to deal with.

He scrolled quickly through the texts, all of them variations on the same theme. Was he sleeping; was he eating; had he died in a horrible crash on the interstate? (Thanks for that image, Tony.)

He appreciated the concern, really he did, but he didn't have the energy for this level of support.

And there was french toast waiting for him.

Really delicious french toast, as it turned out. He took a quick picture of the plate, already half empty, and sent it out as a group text. Hopefully everyone would take that as proof that he was doing just fine, or at least they'd think he was better than he actually was. He didn't take the phone off silent, though. Not even when he sent the same picture to Bucky, along with a message saying, _THANK YOU_

It wasn't until that afternoon that he saw Bucky's reply of _Anytime!_ He almost changed his mind about asking for yet another favor when he saw it, but he didn't have anywhere else to turn.

 

* * *

 

A text startled Bucky out of a doze on the break room couch.

Luckily, nobody was around to notice as he lurched awake. He didn't want to explain why he'd slept even less than usual last night. He wanted to keep that memory close, as just a thing that happened, and not over-analyze it or read anything into it.

(Steve had slept curled in a tight ball, motionless except for when he had grumbled bitterly, shoved his toes under Bucky's ankle, and gone quiet again.)

The phone was still in Bucky's hand, still blinking with a new message.

Steve - _Thanks again for breakfast Do you have a ladder I could borrow? Couldn't bring one home on the bike_

As much as he wanted to, Bucky knew he shouldn't drop everything and run off to help Steve.

He really shouldn't.

Even though Steve was alone, in an empty house, grieving for his lost mother.

Fuck it, Steve was only going to be around for a week. Bucky could afford the time off, and Frank would be happy to pick up the extra hours.

Bucky - _Sure. Be there soon_

Steve - _No rush_

Right.

Bucky rushed.

He made time to scrub off the shop grease and to change clothes, but he definitely rushed, driving home in record time and barely remembering to text Dad about the ladder. He was already carrying it through Steve's backyard when he got a reply.

Dad - _Sure...See you tomorrow._

Bucky wrote back _Thanks_ , and shook his head at his dad's bizarre and ominous texting habits.

He got to the back porch, and shifted the ladder up under his metal arm. He hadn't taken the time to find his gloves and he didn't want to risk denting the door when he knocked. Of course, he couldn't reach the door that way, so he leaned the ladder against the wall, instead. He looked at the door again. Then he turned the ladder around and leaned it the other direction, so it wouldn't land on the flowerbed if it fell. Then he laid it down flat, so it couldn't fall at all.

He was stalling. He never used to knock. Not here. He didn't have to. On the rare occasions when Steve wasn't there waiting for him, he would just barge in, without a second thought. Ms. Rogers would smile and wave him toward Steve's room in the back corner. Most times she didn't say anything, but it was a welcoming, accepting kind of silence. As if he belonged, and she had no reason or even desire to question it.

"Buck?"

Jolted out of his revery, Bucky found Steve standing at the other door, the one that went to the laundry room.

With a little smile, Steve tugged the sleeves of his hoodie down over an array of tattoos before Bucky got a chance look at them. "Hi."

Steve walked closer.

They'd hugged yesterday. Twice. It wouldn't be over-analyzing to wonder if it would happen again. Or to open his arms, just a little. Just in case.

Sure enough, Steve squeezed him tight, then stepped back, still holding onto his arm.

"I brought the ladder," Bucky said, trying not to wonder if there would be hugs every time, or to calculate how many more hugs that might be.

"Thanks." Steve let go of Bucky's arm and grabbed the ladder. "Get the door for me?"

The door Steve had come out of hadn't even latched, so Bucky pushed it open ahead of the ladder and followed Steve through, making sure it closed this time before heading into the living room.

A pile of bags from Furious Hardware filled one corner, but otherwise the room was empty.

Steve set the ladder up right in the center of the floor, under a ceiling fan that looked like it used to be hunter green, but was now a kind of Army gray.

"Forty-eight," Steve said, giving Bucky a very serious look.

Bucky didn't even care that he had no idea what Steve was talking about. All he noticed was the fierce look in Steve's eyes, sharper than when they were kids, but still familiar.

"Forty-eight what?" Bucky asked.

"Light bulbs." Steve grabbed a bag from the corner. "Forty-eight light bulbs in this house, and only three of them work."

He stormed up the ladder. Bucky reached out to steady it, feeling an odd sort of empathy as it swayed under the sheer force of Steve's determination.

Unfortunately, this meant that he was now staring at Steve's t-shirt. Not that there was anything wrong with the shirt. It was cloud blue, with Rosie the Riveter on the front. Not the 'We Can Do It' Rosie. This Rosie was eating a sandwich, looking somehow saintly with a dirt smudged face and a thick leather bracelet. It was a fine shirt. The only problem with it was the way it perfectly fit Steve's lithe frame, clinging gently across his torso and chest, highlighting sleek muscles that might otherwise be overlooked.

Overlooking them was definitely the safer option.

"Which three still worked?" Bucky asked, focusing his eyes on Steve's boring red combat boots. They had yellow wings painted on the sides.

"The bedroom closet, the front porch, and a weird one in the corner of the kitchen."

"Super useful areas."

"How does every single bulb burn out at once?"

It could be a wiring problem, but Bucky figured he shouldn't drop that possibility on Steve right now, even if he did seem to be doing remarkably well today.

"Maybe they didn't," Bucky said. "Maybe they went out one at a time and nobody replaced them."

"Maybe the house is haunted," Steve muttered.

"What?"

"The house," Steve said, waving his hand far too dramatically for someone standing on a ladder. "It's awful."

"It is?" He was sure Steve had said 'haunted'.

"Look at it!"

The living room looked okay. Mostly. The walls were dingy, and the carpet was worse, but -- "Where are the baseboards?"

Steve threw his hands out and shrugged.

Now that Bucky had noticed the gap where the walls should meet the floor, he couldn't stop noticing. "It looks like something's gonna crawl out and eat us."

"It's the best room in the house. You should see the rest."

"How, if there are no light bulbs?"

Steve stared down at him, his frown softening. "You're hilarious," he said in a deadpan voice.

"One of my charms."

"Hit the switch, would ya?" Steve asked, a little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Unless you can charm the lights on."

"Hmm, maybe, but then we wouldn't know if the switch works." Bucky took a moment to enjoy Steve's grin before he went to the door to turn the light on.

"Yes!" The bright glow of LEDs haloed Steve's hair as he gave Bucky a goofy double thumbs up. "Only forty-four to go!"

 

* * *

 

Showing the house to Bucky somehow made it all feel even worse. Steve was doing his best to keep up a strong front, and he'd managed some genuine smiles at Bucky and his charms, but it wasn't easy. Nothing was easy.

"So, kitchen next," Steve said, climbing off the ladder.

"Sure." Bucky held the ladder again as Steve climbed down. Maybe his dad had drilled that habit into him, working at the shop, or maybe it was just how Bucky was, careful about everyone but himself.

Steve picked up another bag of bulbs and Bucky carried the ladder.

"Wow, great stove," Bucky said before they even got into the kitchen. There was no apparent sarcasm in his voice, but it was just a regular stove. "I would love to have a -- Why is there carpet in here?"

_"Green_ carpet," Steve pointed out. Whoever lived here before had liked that color far too much.

"Even if it was a nice color, that's just a terrible idea," Bucky said. "One spilled glass of milk and you'd smell it forever."

"That actually might explain some things."

Bucky gave him a horrified look. "That was on your list! Oh gross."

"Yeah," Steve said, equally disgusted at the thought of all the things that might have worked their way in there. "How do I get rid of a bunch of smelly carpet?

Bucky picked up his foot and checked the bottom of his shoe for contamination. "Oh, no problem, we can just load it in the camper and take it all to the dump."

"We -- We can?"

Bucky flashed him a quick little smile. "Yeah, I mean, I need to throw out the old mattress that's in there anyway, so it would be on my way." He tugged casually at the sleeve of his henley, the liar.

Steve was willing to let the deception slide, if only because Bucky seemed enthusiastic about the kitchen, and Steve could use a little enthusiasm in his life. "Okay. I can work on that next, then."

"Any idea what's under there?"

Bucky studied the floor like he was trying to develop x-ray vision, and Steve studied Bucky, the brightness of his eyes, the curve of his lips, the lift of his shoulders. He looked so … alive, though it hurt to think the word.

"I guess we'll find out when we pull it up."

"Sounds fun." Bucky smiled at him, full and bright. "Lights first though, I guess."

"Lights first," Steve agreed.

Bucky reached out for the bag of bulbs, wiggling his fingers.

Steve couldn't help looking. Each finger moved individually, curling and uncurling in succession with a soft whirring sound, the metal glinting in the sun. Bucky chuckled and turned his hand over, showing the backs of the knuckles, the spaces between the bands widening and narrowing with each movement. It was fascinating. Beautiful.

"How long have you had it?"

"Almost four years now," Bucky said. "Took a while to save up the money. It was my first big purchase. Got it before I even got my own car."

"It seems amazing."

"It is." Bucky considered for a moment. "Want to see a trick?"

"Absolutely!"

Bucky climbed the ladder, paused to make sure Steve was watching, then carefully grasped the burnt out light bulb in the fixture above him. He turned his wrist to unscrew it, and just...kept on turning, spinning his hand around and around until the bulb came free.

He reached down and plunked it into Steve's hand.

"That is amazing," Steve said, grinning foolishly up at him.

Bucky's cheeks were flushed as he smiled back. "I don't, um, I usually don't show anyone, 'cause it's weird. Uncanny is the word Claire used. But you always used to be okay with that stuff, so…"

"Who's Claire?" Steve asked, maybe a bit belligerently. "Nobody should--"

"My prosthetist," Bucky said. "She was just trying to warn me."

The anger that had risen up so quickly ebbed away into nothing, leaving Steve hollow again, but with a new awareness of how empty he had become. Bucky didn't need his help anymore. He probably never had.

"Her partner Misty has an arm a lot like this one," Bucky said, easing the way between them, just like he always used to do. "They designed it together."

Steve nodded. He handed up a new light bulb, avoiding Bucky's eyes and shoving down the sudden, irrational urge to sob. He missed his mom. He missed his life, his friends, his city, his home. He even missed Bucky, right there in front of him, emerged from the past for this brief moment, when Steve couldn't appreciate him the way he should.

Clenching his hands tight around the rails of the ladder, he breathed deep until the feeling passed.

 

* * *

 

Bucky could only watch as the sadness overtook Steve again. He could see it in the way he clung to the ladder, the way his shoulders bent with each ragged breath, the way the fire faded out of him.

He could see it happen, but he wasn't at all sure what to do about it. He used to throw his arm around Steve's shoulders at times like these. It used to be easy. But Bucky hadn't done that in years, not with anyone. Not since Steve left. He didn't know how, anymore.

He climbed down and scuffed his foot against the manky carpet. "Well. Um. You know, when they take out carpets on those tv shows, there's always oak flooring underneath."

Steve looked up at him with a fake little smile. "Somehow I doubt that's what we've got."

"Wood's probably not the best choice for a kitchen anyway. Too much water." His eyes drifted to the stove. "And steam," he added, thinking of the pastas and sauces and even jellies and jams that he'd make if he had one of his own.

"Hmm," Steve said distractedly.

Bucky turned just in time to see Steve grab a corner of the carpet and pull.

It came up easier than Bucky would've expected. He stepped forward to see better, peering over Steve's shoulder, so close he could've smelled his shampoo, if he tried.

Underneath the carpet was a mottled, multicolored mess. Bucky asked in disbelief, "Is that the floor?"

"Padding, I think." Steve reached his toe out and pressed against it, making a dent that immediately refilled itself. "Yeah, padding."

He stomped across to the corner and picked up the edge, undeterred by the grimy look of it.

"Ready?" Steve made another attempt at a smile as he met Bucky's eyes.

"I was born ready," Bucky said in a gruff voice.

Steve narrowed his eyes, and his smile turned a shade more authentic. "You're sure?"

"Show me the damned floor, Rogers," Bucky said, scrunching his face into a fake frown.

Steve huffed out a laugh and pulled up the padding, walking backwards until he nearly ran into Bucky's chest. It was only Bucky's hand, dropped hastily onto his shoulder, that stopped them from crashing together.

Bucky looked at the floor. His hand was still on Steve's shoulder, the seam of his hoodie thick under his thumb, but Bucky looked dutifully at the floor.

It was white, or it had been once, with pale blue stripes and pink blobs that were probably supposed to be flowers.

"Oh, that's right," Steve said in a whisper. "I used to sweep this. I always hated the little rust stains."

There _were_ little rust stains, hiding in the dust and filth. "From the nails underneath, I guess."

"You think this will come up too?" Steve poked the vinyl with his toe, leaning into Bucky's hand to keep his balance.

"I...I don't know. I assume it's glued, but…"

Steve stomped to the corner again, and picked at the edge of the vinyl. "No, you're right, it's glued." He frowned around at the floor. "Still, it's better than the carpet. Wanna help me move the fridge?"

"Oh, I bet there's absolutely nothing disgusting under there. Let's do it!"

As it turned out, absolutely _everything_ under there was disgusting. And the area under the oven we almost as bad. But he and Steve were able to roll up the carpet and the pad into a pair of the big, nasty burritos and drag them out into the garage, where they sat surrounded by funeral flowers.

Steve nudged at one of the vases with his shoe. "You mind if we take these to the dump, too?"

"Sure, no problem." Unless the job being monstrously depressing counted as a problem. In that case, it certainly was a problem, but not one that Bucky could solve, so he decided not to count it.

"I tried asking people to donate to to her charity instead, but it didn't matter," Steve said softly.

"At least they didn't bring casseroles."

Steve breathed a laugh. "Doesn't sound so bad right about now. You have plans for dinner? We could order pizza."

"You really want gas station pizza?"

"It doesn't have to be-- Is there anywhere else?"

"Nope. Civilization never found Greenville. It's Gas 'n' Grub pizza or no pizza at all."

Steve scrunched his nose. "Is it better than I remember?"

"Doubtful," Bucky said. "It's not the kind of thing you forget."

"In that case, I've got granola bars, if you're interested."

"Wow. So tempting."

"Yeah. Fresh from the hardware store."

Bucky grinned. "Okay. Why not."

He followed Steve back into the kitchen, walking carefully over the coating of dust. He waited until Steve had a mouthful of granola bar before he said, "But next time I get to cook."

Steve glared, but he grudgingly nodded his agreement. That was good enough for now.


	3. Chapter 3

The dark ceiling didn't hold any answers, of course, but Steve stared at it anyway. There was nothing else to do.

Painting the walls didn't worry him. He might even be able to repaint the ugly fan in the living room. But replacing an entire kitchen floor was a far bigger job than he'd expected to take on. He could afford the materials. Probably. But he didn't have any tools, or any idea what he was doing.

It was fine. There were bound to be tutorials somewhere.

He grabbed his phone from the corner and shoved his pile of blankets back into a makeshift bed. He could figure this out.

As it turned out, there were lots of tutorials. So many tutorials.

Two hours later, he was watching an endless video about ceramic tiles when he was saved by an incoming text.

Bucky -

At first, Steve thought there must be a picture attached, but no. There was nothing. No message, no picture. Just a blank text.

Steve - _???_

No response.

Not everyone replied to texts right away. Steve had been ignoring most of his for days.

Still…

He pushed himself up from the floor and peered out the window.

Bucky's lights were on.

 _All_ of Bucky's lights were on.

Steve - _I'm going to be over there in about two minutes unless you tell me not to come_

Ten seconds later, Steve pulled on his shoes and grabbed his hoodie. He sprinted across the lawns, miraculously avoiding a rose bush that he didn't remember, and rushed up the stairs.

He almost opened the door, a habit he'd forgotten he had, but at the last second he let go of the knob and knocked.

The door flew open before his hand even fell. Bucky had wild hair and an eerily calm demeanor as he waved Steve inside without a word.

This was familiar territory, at least. Steve walked past Bucky without trying to hug him, shoved off his shoes, and sat cross-legged on the end of the bed.

As expected, Bucky bolted the door closed then stalked across the room, back and forth.

The first time Steve had heard the phrase 'pacing like a caged tiger', this was the image that had come to mind - a much younger Bucky, circling his room with an empty, dissatisfied intensity, just like this.

Bucky crossed his arm over his chest and kneaded at his stump, a new gesture, one that Steve didn't understand.

"Does that hurt?"

Bucky gave him a confused look.

"Your arm," Steve said softly, reaching out as if on reflex. "Does it hurt? Can I help?"

"I…" He assessed it for a long moment, then looked back up. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

A wave of anger roared through Steve at the sight of the surprise on Bucky's face. Had anyone even tried to help him before? Where were his friends? Where was his family? Had anyone seen how scared he was? How sweet he was? How lonely?

Steve patted the bed, not trusting his voice, and Bucky immediately crawled in beside him. Once they'd arranged themselves, with Bucky curled on his side, Steve kneeling at his back, Steve found himself unsure of how to proceed. He didn't want to surprise Bucky by grabbing at him, but he suspected Bucky would rather not deal with talking right now, either.

He settled on murmuring "All right," before resting his palm lightly on Bucky's shoulder. That didn't make him tense up any further, so Steve moved his hand in a slow circle, smoothing over Bucky's t-shirt sleeve. He applied a little more pressure, following the contours of the muscles in long, sweeping motions, harder as he went up, lighter as he went back down.

When Bucky sighed softly and went a little less rigid, Steve decided to give talking a try.

"I actually learned everything I know about this from a dog."

Bucky didn't laugh, of course. He didn't even smile. He blinked slowly and said, "What kind?"

"The best kind. A mutt. He's fluffy and yellow and very patient."

"What's his name?" Bucky said, a touch slurred.

"Lucky. But he also answers to Pizza Dog."

"How'd he teach you?"

"He's got arthritis," Steve said. He left out the part about the car crash. That story was way too close to home. "His owner, Clint, can't always be around, so the rest of us learned some massage, and we pitch in sometimes."

"That's nice." Bucky's face went through a complicated series of expressions, from a slight smile to a trembling frown. "You remember how we met?"

"Yeah Buck. I remember."

"In the hospital. In the Children's Ward," Bucky said, like he hadn't heard Steve's reply. "Every night, the lights went out, and the other kids started to cry. They wanted their parents or their dogs or...I don't know. They were all alone, crying in the dark. And I yelled, so they'd know someone was there, but Doctor Pierce came and the nurses stuck needles in my arm and I couldn't move, couldn't talk, couldn't even open my eyes. All I could do was listen when--"

He snapped his mouth shut. The rest of it must have been much worse.

Steve didn't know how much of that was the dream and how much was real, but he ached for Bucky either way. Without anything else to do, he said the one thing that always came to mind when he was in pain.

"I know it hurts, but it's over now. Try to let it make you stronger."

"Your mom used to say that," Bucky whispered.

"Yeah. She did."

Bucky reached across himself and set his hand on top of Steve's, gentle and reassuring.

A bolt of panic shot through Steve's gut. He couldn't do this. The only protection he had left was to feel numb. He couldn't afford to be comforted.

"Wish I could make it better," Bucky said, still whispering, like he was saying it to himself.

Fuck. _Fuck._

Maybe...maybe Steve could give a little.

Bucky needed this. He needed to know that he could help, that his help was wanted, that it was welcomed.

Steve could give him that, for a while.

"Can you...Please, I…" Steve eased himself down to lay at Bucky's side, his breath already shaking. "I don't want to be alone, Buck, it's too much, it's too hard, she's gone and I can't..."

Bucky rolled to face him, and Steve wedged himself closer, under Bucky's arm, and let Bucky hold him tight. Let him be the only refuge against the grief and fear and sorrow that had howled after him all the way from California.

He could let go, for now. Just until his eyes fell closed. Just for a little bit of warmth.

Just for tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

It was the first time Steve had gone to a hospital for someone other than himself. His aunt needed chemotherapy, a word Steve hadn't learned to hate yet, and since he and Mom were going to be living with her now, they went along.

"That's what family does," Mom said.

Apparently, family also had to go in early to meet Aunt Janet's friend's son.

Aunt Janet said he was ten years old, just like Steve. She said he'd been hit by a car when he was riding his bike. She said it was really bad, but he was going to pull through. She said not to make him feel uncomfortable, and then Mom said Steve would be fine.

He _would_ be fine. He was _determined_ to be fine, even though he hated the hospital, because it smelled like a hospital, and it had bright, ugly colors, like a hospital, and it was too quiet, like a hospital.

When they got to the room, a nurse there just pulled away the curtain and said they could go in, so they did, without even knocking.

The boy in the bed was taller than Steve, which was no surprise, and he had dark hair, and he didn't even look hurt, at first. Just a bandage on his chin, and some light bruises where his helmet had probably been. But when he looked away from the tv and saw Aunt Janet, he tried to sit up, and he sure didn't seem fine after that.

There were drainage tubes leading out of his arm, and it was all bandaged up and...and it wasn't all there. More than half of it wasn't there. His face twisted up with pain as he slumped back down.

"Hello Bucky," Aunt Janet said, in a gentle, hospital voice.

He forced his eyes open and said grimly, "Hello."

"This is Steve, my nephew. Say hi, Steve."

Ugh. He wasn't a baby. He would have said it without being told.

Steve grudgingly said, "Hi."

Bucky grudgingly said, "Hi," right back.

Aunt Janet smiled proudly at both of them. "So, Bucky, did you find something good to watch on the tv?"

"No," Bucky said, "there's only four channels and they're all boring." He set his jaw, ready to argue about it. Steve smiled at that, and maybe a little bit at the surprised look on Aunt Janet's face.

Mom laughed. "Hospital television is never worth watching."

"Soap operas," Steve added.

Mom put her hand on his head. He wished she wouldn't do that in front of people, but he loved her, so he didn't complain. At least she didn't ruffle his hair this time.

"Okay," she said, "we'll let the two of you get to know each other while Aunt Janet has her appointment."

Aunt Janet's mouth dropped open, but Mom ignored her and told Steve, "We'll be back in about an hour. Stay out of trouble."

"Yes Mom," Steve said. Ugh. She didn't need to say that, he hardly ever got in trouble.

She ruffled his hair as she left.

He sighed and swiped it all back into place. When he finished, Bucky was staring at him.

"Um, hi," Bucky said. He tried to shift himself up again, and winced.

"Here." Steve darted in, brushed the drain lines off the remote for the bed, and handed it to Bucky, whose eyes had gone very wide and were locked on the drains. "Don't worry," Steve said, "those won't fall off. But that might."

He pointed at the monitor clipped to Bucky's finger. It seemed stupid to put it there, instead of putting it on his toe, or even better, taping on some electrodes. It seemed like it would fall off all the time. But Steve wasn't a nurse or anything.

Bucky studied him. "Have you ever had surgery?"

"Yes," Steve said, not about to be one upped, especially in this. "Lots of times."

But Bucky didn't look like he was trying to outdo him, or seem bolder or bigger than him. He curled his one arm around himself and said quietly, "Did it hurt?"

Steve thought about how his whole chest had felt bruised and torn, how he had learned not to cry, because crying multiplied the pain until he wanted to scream. 

He nodded.

"A lot?"

He nodded again.

Bucky frowned and turned away. "Nobody would say. They all just told me that I wouldn't feel anything, 'cause of the anaesthesia."

"It hurts every time," Steve said. "Last time it hurt all summer."

"Oh." Bucky looked at him again, and his eyes were blue and gray and really worried.

"But it's over now," Steve added quickly. He tapped the scar on his chest and shrugged. "Just itches sometimes."

"Will it be gross?"

"Most of that stuff is while you're asleep."

Bucky nodded, and looked understandably disappointed.

"You'll get stitches, though," Steve said.

That didn't seem to cheer him up much. "I already have stitches."

"Yeah? How many?"

"I didn't get to see them yet," Bucky admitted. "But they said I got four on my side, and sixteen on my leg."

"I had sixteen on my chest, last time!"

They grinned at each other, astonished to find they had so much in common.

By the time Steve's mom came back, they were already best friends.


	5. Chapter 5

Bucky hadn't slept at all. He probably wouldn't ever sleep again, either. He would have to drift through the rest of his life as a sleepless zombie person, at least until...

Steve uncoiled slowly, grumbling to himself and pulling his toes out from under Bucky's ankle. He peered at Bucky through one half-squinted eye and muttered, "Why's your bed so good?"

Or maybe Bucky was asleep, right now, and this was a dream. "Um, what?"

"Nnn." Steve shook his head. "Guh, and 'm still in my dirty jeans. Fuck. Sorry I keep crashing on you."

"Don't apologize." Bucky sat up, oddly stung. "Hell, _I_ should be the one--"

"No," Steve said sternly. "You shouldn't." He rubbed his eyes. "You're right. I'm not sorry. I guess what I mean is...Thank you?"

"Anytime? I mean, thank you, too? That's..." They stared at each other, frozen in this weird conversation. There was only one way out. "So. You like the bed, huh?"

"Oh god." Steve buried his face in the comforter. "I really said that."

_"So good,_ I believe is what--"

"Shush." Steve sprawled flat, bumping his elbow into Bucky side. "I'm bonding with the mattress, don't interrupt."

"Oh, bonding. Of course."

"Yes. We're soulmates now. No other furniture will come between us."

Bucky watched Steve grin into the pillows for as long as he could stand. Texting him last night was probably the best impulse he'd ever had during the grip of a panic attack. He'd never recovered so well before. But holding him through the night and joking with him in bed in the morning sent Bucky's mind into corners he should avoid. Better to change the subject. "What do you have planned for today?"

Steve thought it over. "I never finished the lightbulbs, so I guess I'll do that first. Then I'll see how much paint I can bring back on my bike. Maybe try to get a mop, if I can do it without going jousting on the highway."

"We could take the camper."

"We?" Steve propped himself up, smiling. "You don't have work?"

"Nah, I'm free today." He had texted Frank at around 3AM to give up his slot until Monday. He could make up the hours next week.

"Great!" Steve rolled off the bed and onto his feet in one swift, fluid motion. "I'll go get changed. Meet me over there when you're ready. We still have plenty of granola bars left."

He dashed out the door before Bucky could reply, taking all his energy and light with him.

Bucky dragged himself into the shower, where he woke up enough to be able to rush through his morning routine. Within twenty minutes, he pulled the camper into the driveway at Steve's house.

Steve was waiting on the front porch.

It wasn't even spring yet, but the summer sun glowed golden in his hair, turned his eyes as bright as the sky. His breath plumed out in a cloud, and he huddled deeper into his hoodie as he jogged to the camper.

Bucky wanted to offer him his jacket, but he settled for turning up the heater as Steve climbed into the passenger's seat.

Steve buckled in and handed Bucky a granola bar.

Turning down free food would be wrong. He ate it in two bites, to minimize how long he had to taste it, and said, "Thanks." 

"Mm-hm," Steve said, with his mouth still full.

With breakfast taken care of, Bucky backed out of the driveway and set off.

They'd barely gone a mile when Steve said wryly, "You always such a speed demon?"

"This thing is the size of my entire loft. I don't know how fast you think it can go."

"Or maybe you just drive like a grandpa."

"We're going 40 in a 35 zone. Quit complaining," Bucky said, smothering a smile.

"All right." Steve watched an empty field go by. "I actually think the loft could go faster, though."

"Oh my god."

"I'm just saying--"

"Speed isn't everything, Steve."

"It's one of the best things, though."

"Wow. Now you'll never get me to ride on that Harley with you."

Not that Steve had ever offered. Still, he smiled sweetly and said, "It's okay, I'd go easy on you. Although, it can be a little hard to keep your balance when you go slower than 5 miles an hour."

"Have I told you lately that you're a smartass?"

"Yep. It's one of my charms," Steve answered, practically gloating.

"In that case you are _very_ charming."

The smile that went along with Steve's happy little laugh lasted all the way into the parking lot at Furious Hardware, where Bucky finally got a chance to really look at it.

He would have looked at it forever, if he had the chance.

He didn't. Steve hopped out of the camper after just a few seconds, and Bucky followed him into the store.

The owner, Mr. Fury, didn't seem to notice them, even when the bell over the door jingled, but Bucky had been here often enough to know that was far from the truth. Nick Fury noticed everything, particularly inside his own store.

Steve, who probably noticed almost as much as Fury, walked right to the back, to the flooring section, where he stopped to study a box of boards labeled **Snap-Loc Floor System**.

"What do you know about this stuff?" he asked.

"It...snaps? And/or locks?"

"I guess so." Steve sighed. "I saw an article that said it was easy to install, but somehow I ended up watching videos about cutting ceramic tiles." He raised an eyebrow at Bucky. "I'm now disturbingly comfortable with the word 'nippers'."

Bucky laughed. This was how it always felt with Steve, ever since the beginning, when a fearless, quick-witted boy had dropped into the middle of the worst day of his life and had miraculously found a way to make everything a little lighter.

"I haven't watched any videos," Bucky said, "But I think the first thing we need is the measurements for the floor."

"No, the first thing we need is a measuring tape."

"Okay." Bucky pulled the notepad out of his pocket. A piece of paper came along with it, folded up tight. Oh god, the picture. Mrs. Rogers. He tucked it hastily back where it came from and found a pen, instead.

He wrote down _measuring tape,_ then made a second column and wrote _kitchen floor._

"I don't remember you being this organized," Steve said, smiling.

"I don't remember having anything that needed organizing. I was a kid."

"And now you're the kind of grown-up who files their taxes early?"

"Yes? Why would I wait until April? That's..." With Steve looking ready to laugh at him, Bucky gave up. He wrote _paint_ on the list. Then _brushes_ and _rollers_ and _tray?_ And finally _mop,_ which made Steve nod and smile.

"C'mon." Steve started toward the paint section, with Bucky at his side.

As they walked, he pressed his shoulder into Bucky's arm, an electric sensation that stirred up clouded memories of last night, of feeling Steve's hands, so sure, so cold, even through his t-shirt sleeve.

He tried to think clearly and remind himself that this probably didn't mean much to Steve. They used to do this all the time. It was no big deal. Regardless of what his entire nervous system might have to say on the subject.

Somehow, Bucky made it to the paint section without turning into a puddle of goo, and Steve found a stray cart to pile rollers and brushes and tape into.

It was easier to think once the touching stopped, and Bucky asked casually, "Were you painting all the rooms white, or…"

Steve scrunched his nose in distaste. "I hate white walls. Besides, it'll take something dark to cover what they did to the biggest bedroom."

"It will?"

"Oh, you didn't get to see it!" Steve grinned. "It is so awful, I can't wait to show you."

Radiant. Steve was fucking radiant when he smiled. How had the state of California survived it all these years? Maybe the extra sunshine out there helped. Solar powered Steve resistance. Something.

"...with red tones in it," Steve was saying, running his finger over the rows of paint chips. "Otherwise it'll feel too cold, especially-- Ah! This one."

He plucked out one of the chips and handed it over, tapping the third color down, a rich, medium gray.

"Nebelung?" Bucky asked, reading the label.

Steve snatched it back to read it for himself. "What the heck is a nebelung?"

He was standing so close that Bucky didn't even think to tease him for saying 'heck'. Not until after Steve had started googling, and by then it was too late. By then Steve had half-turned to show Bucky his phone and pressed his shoulder into Bucky's chest and made it impossible to say anything that would risk making that stop.

"Aw," Bucky said once the results came up, in a much higher pitched voice than he'd have liked. "Cat."

"A rare breed of domestic cat with dark gray fur and green eyes," Steve read, "Nebelung comes from a German word meaning 'creature of the mist'."

"So pretty," Bucky whispered.

Steve grinned over his shoulder at him. "That settles it. Nebelung it is."

Bucky chuckled. Hopefully he didn't sound entirely breathless. (Fucking _radiant_ smile.)

"So that's...that's good," Steve said, turning back to the paint chips. "Maybe something brighter for my old room. A nice yellow?"

"Sure."

Steve handed over another chip and pointed to the second color, a sort of creamy yellow.

"Auld Lang Syne," Bucky read. He didn't much like the name, or the thought of old acquaintances being forgot, but he supposed that wasn't a good way to choose a color.

"Is this too dark?" Steve asked, handing over yet another chip.

It was a deep copper color, warm and lush, like a well used old pan. "Oh nice," Bucky said, "Penny for Your Thoughts."

Steve glanced down at the name on the chip, then looked Bucky right in the eye and said, "Since you're offering pennies, I was just thinking how lucky I am that you're here."

"That ... well, I…" Bucky fumbled for words in the face of the nicest thing ever said to him, from the only person he'd ever held through the night, the only best friend he'd ever had. "There's nowhere else I would be."

Smiling softly, Steve knocked their shoulders together.

Bucky turned into a puddle of goo.

He was pretty sure he did. Nobody could maintain structural integrity under these circumstances, surely.

"Who do we talk to about paint?" Steve asked, not seeming to have any goo-related issues.

"The owner, Mr. Fury. He'll mix it. He's at the front desk, probably."

Bucky led the way, only pausing long enough to grab a mop. Steve chuckled and grabbed a broom to go with it, nestling them together in the cart.

Mr. Fury looked up as they approached. He was imposing, in his black leather jacket and his black leather eyepatch.

Bucky's dad liked to say, "Nick Fury lost an eye, and he never once let that hold him back." It was probably meant to be some kind of encouragement, but it felt like maybe what he really meant was that Bucky was failing to live up to the standard Fury had set.

"James Barnes," Fury said, in that grave way he had. "Haven't seen you in a while."

Now that he thought about, Bucky supposed that before today he'd only ever come in here when he didn't have a choice. He nodded toward Steve. "I'm with him."

"Steve Rogers," Mr. Fury said, not bothering to wait for an introduction. "I didn't get to say so yesterday, but I was very sorry about the loss of your mother."

"Yeah," Steve said. "Me too."

Bucky couldn't tell if that was supposed to be funny or not, but Mr. Fury seemed amused.

"So, what can I do for you two on this fine morning?"

"We need some paint mixed," Steve said. He fanned the paint chips out on the counter. "Semi-gloss, interior, two gallons each."

Fury frowned at them. "You know, the reason we have those is to take them back and see how the color looks in the space."

"I'm sure they'll look fine," Steve said, jutting his chin out.

"A man who knows what he wants," Fury said, looking amused again. "I do like that. No returns on custom colors, by the way."

It was probably only coincidence that Fury's back was turned when Steve rolled his eyes. Maybe if he'd gotten some sleep Bucky would have managed not to feel so damned _fond_ about that, but he hadn't, and it made him all gooey again, mainly in the knees and chest.

Luckily, he had a little time to recover as they finished their shopping, before he had to drive back home.

But he couldn't help thinking that being a zombie person would have been easier.


	6. Chapter 6

Numbness had been easier.

After spending half the day whipsawing between deep sadness and reckless affection, Steve was sure of that much.

He'd had a wobbly moment when Mr. Fury had mentioned Mom, and before that an even wobblier moment when Bucky had laughed softly about a cat picture.

Bucky's eyes were like the sky on a misty June morning, when the air was rich and cool and thick with possibility. He dipped his chin when he laughed, bringing to mind lush kisses and midnight promises and waking up under the curve a strong arm.

Steve had already spent too many nights in Bucky's bed. He shouldn't be thinking about more. But he watched Bucky, while Bucky watched the road, threading the camper through narrow, empty streets. The remnants of laughter still lingered in the curve of his mouth, and Steve soaked in all of it, all of the joy he hadn't felt in so long, years maybe.

Adults didn't get to have the kind of friendships that kids could, he had thought. Sam, with his gift for meaningful banter, had come the closest to that feeling, but it was still a hardfought kind of loyalty, cemented only a month after they met, when actual fucking Nazis had shown up at the bar, looking for an easy fight.

They hadn't found one.

The toothmarks Steve had gotten on his knuckle that night would probably last the rest of his life, and the friendship definitely would.

But this thing with Bucky...it felt effortless. It felt time worn and solid, shiny and new. It felt like forever, stretching out endlessly in every direction.

Considering the rhapsodic turn of his mind, Steve decided it was possible that he was still a little sleep deprived.

Hopefully Bucky was less distracted. Anyway, he managed to park them safely in the driveway. Steve hopped out and opened the garage, while Bucky hopped out and opened the back of the camper. Wordlessly coordinating. Effortlessly.

Geez.

As the garage door rolled up, Steve turned to see that Bucky had looped the handles of all six cans of paint on his metal arm, as if that was a reasonable thing to do, and picked them up together.

"Set all that down," Steve said, "I've got to show you the big bedroom, first."

"The awful one?" Bucky asked, as he put the paint on the garage floor.

Steve grinned and tugged him toward the door. "You have to see it. Come on."

The biggest bedroom had obviously been an addition, and it was oddly situated beside the garage, on the opposite side of the house from the other two bedrooms. It had been Aunt Janet's room for the first year, and after she died, Mom had cleared it out and barely used it at all, other than for storage.

"Cover your eyes," Steve said as they got to the doorway.

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously, you need the full effect." He reached out, slow enough that Bucky could duck away if he wanted, and put his hand over Bucky's eyes.

Bucky let out a gust of breath, but he played along, with a little smile on his lips. He let Steve guide him the last few steps through the door and even said, "How bad could it be?" 

Steve uncovered his eyes.

It had been worth the effort. Bucky's jaw dropped and he whispered, "Holy cow."

"Yeah."

The dark green blinds on the windows gave all of the sunlight a sickly tinge, making the dingy carpet look like rumpled moss, but the worst part was definitely the paint.

Bucky drew his fingers lightly over the wall nearest him. It was pale, flat yellow, deeply spattered with shiny red and green. "You figure they really exploded an alien in here, or did they just fake it for the aesthetic?"

"You ask this _after_ you touch the remains?"

"Shit, and I can't afford to lose another arm," Bucky said, with a touch of uncertainty in his smile.

Steve smiled back. "Probably couldn't afford to lose the first one."

"Oh _now_ you tell me."

It was sweet, and so heartbreaking, the pure joy that overtook Bucky's face. It confirmed Steve's suspicion that Bucky wasn't making these kind of jokes with anyone else in his life. His dad had always been touchy about the subject, when he talked at all, and with Bucky working at his shop all day, and … it was impossible to believe that someone like Bucky would have no friends outside of work, but he certainly seemed to have a lot of free time, with no incoming texts or anything.

Steve couldn't help hating the entire town of Greenville just a little, for treating Bucky this way.

He ran his finger down the same path on the wall that Bucky had. "So, now you know why we need a dark paint. Wanna grab some rollers?"

"Oh, we're -- now?" Bucky looked down at himself. "Um, these are my best pants. Do you mind if I go change first?"

"Sure. Actually, that'll give me time to change the light bulbs in here. And bring in the rest of the stuff from the hardware store. And change my own clothes."

Tony would have called him Captain Scatterbrains for that. Natasha would have silently judged him from afar. But Bucky put a hand on Steve's shoulder and said, "Great! I'll be right back."

"Great," Steve echoed, dazzled once again by Bucky's smile.

"Don't start without me," Bucky called over his shoulder as he left.

"I can't make any promises. Better hurry."

Laughing, Bucky broke into a run and dashed out.

The house seemed colder the second the door closed.

Steve brought the bags in first, so he could close up the garage before anything got in there, and put on his rattiest clothes. Then he dragged over the ladder and replaced the light bulbs in the ceiling fan.

He was busy putting up painter's tape around the window frame when he heard the door.

"In here!"

"I'll just be a minute," Bucky called back.

Steve shrugged and started taping again. He always enjoyed this part, establishing clean, crisp lines, with no moving parts or massive egos to worry about. Not at all like his day job, though some well placed tape might have worked wonders there, too.

He had just reached the highest point he could get to without the ladder when Bucky came in and said, "Oh."

"Hey Buck."

"Lunch," Bucky said, blinking slowly and holding out a sandwich.

"Shit, I didn't even think about eating. Thanks."

Steve took the sandwich in one hand, and pulled Bucky into a one armed hug with the other. It was kind of a reflex, really. But he also figured that hugs were another area where Greenville was letting Bucky down, so he hung on for an extra second.

"No problem," Bucky said into his shoulder. "I really hope I'm not getting mustard on you."

Steve laughed and pulled away. "Wouldn't matter."

He gestured at his old black yoga pants and the worn out crop top from last year's Pride.

Bucky chewed on his cuticle as he followed the movement, slowly looking Steve up and down. He blinked again and said, "Um. Sure."

Before Steve had time to think much about that, Bucky said, "Are we gonna tape the ceiling?"

His cheeks were flushed, and he wasn't meeting Steve's eyes.

"Yeah, a double row, so the roller won't bump it."

"Makes sense." Bucky nodded vigorously and took a big bite of his sandwich.

Steve looked down at himself. Skin tight pants. Rainbow tee sliding off one shoulder.

He knew what he looked like. He'd seen his own cheekbones, and his eyelashes, and his surf honed physique. Even if he couldn't see it for himself, working security made him very aware of how people responded to him. He'd seen plenty of hungry smiles at the bar, and lingering looks in Sam's tea shop. He knew he was hot.

He'd just assumed Bucky was immune, somehow. And maybe he used to be, when they were kids. Steve certainly hadn't figured any of that out back then.

Bucky didn't seem immune anymore.

All of Steve's reckless affection came soaring up again, like a fire in his chest that warmed him through to his fingers and toes.

Those kissable lips curved into a smile, and Bucky said, "You gonna eat that sandwich? I promise it's better than a granola bar."

"Fuck you, I like granola bars." Steve took a bite. "Holy shit," he mumbled, still chewing. "I definitely like this better, though. Mmph. Delicious."

"It's just a ham sandwich," Bucky said. He rolled his eyes, but his cheeks went pink again. 

"This is not _just_ a ham sandwich," Steve said, peering at it more closely now that he knew how good it was. "There's two kinds of cheese. And salami. And lettuce and onions and --"

"They were leftover from last week, it's nothing special." 

Bucky shoved another big bite in his mouth, like the liar he was. It was adorable.

Steve waited until Bucky was fully occupied with chewing before he said, "Well, thanks for the leftovers, they're amazing."

Bucky made a sound like "Jss a ssmmsh."

"A _really good_ sandwich." He thumped their shoulders together. "Take the compliment, Buck."

"Fine," Bucky said, finally swallowing. "Thanks, I'm glad you liked it. That really means a lot coming from someone who enjoys granola."

"Fuck. You." Steve laughed and flipped him off.

Bucky laughed, too, leaning into Steve, so their bare arms pressed together. His eyes flicked down and widened, as if the touch surprised him.

"Wow, 'Fear is the mind-killer'," he said, reading the tattoo on Steve's forearm.

"Yeah, it's --"

"From Dune. I know." He turned away. "It was your favorite. I finally read it, the summer after you left."

"Oh." Steve felt a strange swell of guilt, although leaving hadn't been his choice. He'd tried to stay. He'd even sobbed in front of his mother, which had seemed to his 16 year old self to be humiliating beyond compare, but it hadn't worked at all.

She had hugged him tightly and said, "I can't let this opportunity pass, honey. I promise, going out there will be better for both of us. I _promise."_

She'd been right.

Steve had learned to surf. He'd learned to feel free. Learned to be himself.

He'd learned that the shape of someone's body wasn't a factor in whether he wanted to love them, and he'd learned to be proud of that, to march for it, to wear glitter as a mark of honor, to wave a rainbow as his banner.

He'd made a home for himself, in the sun and the smog, and he'd found friendships and happiness and an ever expanding family there.

But now he wondered if maybe Bucky hadn't gotten any of those things, here in Greenville, where nobody even hugged him.

"It's a good book," Bucky said, jarring Steve back to the present. He picked up the roll of tape. "Ready to get started?"

"Sure," Steve said, even though he still had half a sandwich in his hand. "Let's do this."

He finished the sandwich in three bites, even though it deserved to be savored, and opened a new roll of tape. He started on the door frame, as high as he could reach, enjoying the feeling of stretching up on his toes.

Bucky glanced over, then froze, staring as Steve's crop top rode up, before he snapped around to look at nothing.

Definitely not immune.

Steve forced himself to keep working, despite how thrilling that felt.

The ladder wasn't handy, so he left the door half-finished and got out his pocket knife to unscrew the nearest outlet cover.

Behind him, Bucky muttered, "Dammit."

Steve turned to see that nearly half of the tape Bucky had put up was now stuck to his metal fingers instead the wall. He wanted to offer to help, but he had to trust that Bucky would know his own limits, so he chewed his lip and went back to working on the screw.

It wasn't as easy as it sounded. Aesthetically, he understood why they used slotted screws, but every time the little screwdriver slipped out of the groove, he wished the damned things were Phillips, instead.

A ripping sound and a heavy sigh made it clear that Bucky's taping wasn't going any better.

With a heavy sigh of his own, Steve tried again with the slippy goddamned screw.

"Steve."

He spun around to find Bucky right beside him.

"You're over here doing the one job I might actually be good at. Trade me?" He held out his metal hand, which had several bits of blue tape still clinging to it, and asked silently for Steve's pocketknife.

When Steve hesitated, still mad and not ready to give up fighting the screws, Bucky narrowed his eyes and rotated his hand all the way around.

Steve grabbed the roll of tape. "You won't be able to win _every_ argument with your cool spinny trick, though."

"I didn't even realize we were arguing." He frowned as he took the pocketknife. "This is what we're using?"

"It's what we've got."

Bucky pulled out his notebook and wrote _toolbox_ on a fresh page. When he realized Steve was watching, he said, "I can bring it with me tomorrow."

Steve smiled so hard he laughed a little.

"What?"

"I didn't know you were gonna be here tomorrow. I like that you're so into this."

"Well, it's cool and you're...you, so...yeah." He looked away as if he had no idea how absolutely charming he was.

"And you're you, so you should have this." Steve fished his keys out of his pocket and slipped off one of the spare house keys to give to Bucky.

He turned it over in his hand, with a soft little smile. "Thanks."

He was so damned sweet.

Steve shrugged. "You're a big help. Or, you will be, if you ever get those outlet covers off."

"Oh, and those edges are gonna tape themselves while you stand here managing me?" Bucky said with a smirk.

"Fine, I'll work if you'll work."

"Fine."

They grinned at each other, and then they got started.

It was the best time Steve had ever had while painting a room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking with me through the sparse updates! Your kudos and comments mean so much to me!


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky had never painted walls before. He'd moved from a room in Dad's house to a room in Dad's garage, and both rooms were the same as they had ever been, unchanged and unchangeable.

It turned out to be easier than he'd imagined. He'd used the roller, and Steve had darted around him with a brush, filling in all the details. Like a dance. The worst parts had been keeping drips of paint out of the grooves of his metal arm, and trying not to stare at his dance partner.

Tucking his arm behind his back had mostly solved the first problem, but by the time they finished he still hadn't figured out a solution to the second.

Paint-speckled and flushed from all the work, Steve was unspeakably gorgeous. He was resting his elbows on his knees, sitting unselfconsciously on the kitchen floor, watching Bucky cook. "Where'd you even learn to make fettucini alfredo?"

"We do have internet out here, Steve. Besides, it's not that hard." He tossed some Parmesan into the sauce he was making with a little more flourish than necessary. "Easier with a real stove though."

Steve chuckled. "You can come over and borrow it to make food for me any time you want."

Bucky chuckled, too. He imagined that he could feel the key Steve had given him, a cool weight in his pocket. If he looked out the window, he knew he would see his own loft, but this was where he felt at home. Here with Steve. Or there with Steve. At the hardware store with Steve.

The place wasn't what mattered.

He stirred in the cream and entertained a brief fantasy of them living together, just like this. Working at the shop wouldn't be so bad if he could come home to Steve. He'd bring the rest of his kitchen things and he'd cook every night while Steve laughed and made jokes.

Even Greenville seemed bearable with Steve around.

He could just make out Steve's reflection in the microwave door. Steve, in his tight blue pants and his rainbow shirt. He was better and brighter than anything in in this town.

He didn't belong here.

Greenville didn't deserve him.

Bucky viciously stirred more pepper into his sauce.

"I can't remember the last time anyone cooked for me," Steve said. "I mean, aside from your french toast. Thor sometimes brings cupcakes into the office, or Tony shares his gross smoothies, but that doesn't really count. I guess it was Sam. Right after Mom was diagnosed. He made chicken soup and biscuits."

"Comfort food," Bucky said. "That's nice."

Steve's reflection sat up a little straighter. "He said it was all he had on hand, but he would definitely lie about that."

"I think I like this Sam of yours."

"Because he lied to me?"

Bucky looked over his shoulder so he could see Steve's smile, wide and bright and perfect. "Yes, because he lied to you."

Steve held up both middle fingers. "Look, one for each of you."

"Aww, and I only have enough for you," Bucky said, holding up his own.

Watching Steve laugh was better than any sunrise. He did it with his whole body, throwing his head back, rolling to the side, clutching at his chest. His toes curled and his eyes closed and it felt like a miracle, every damned time.

Once he caught his breath, Steve said, "He is great. But he's not _my_ Sam. He and Riley are the cutest couple ever. He loves to tell me how she's his _best friend,_ and she's _so strong,_ and she's _so gorgeous._ They were in the Air Force together. They run their tea shop together. They're like a storybook story. It's ridiculous."

"That's sweet." Bucky felt his smile fade as he turned back to his pasta. It _was_ sweet. So fucking sweet. So far from anything Bucky knew.

He lifted the pot and drained it in the sink. "Can you get the plates and forks out of that bag?"

"You really thought of everything," Steve said admiringly, setting places for each of them on a long stretch of counter.

"I tried."

Mostly, he'd thought of Steve, eating granola bars alone in a corner. That had made it easy to decide to pack up most of his cooking supplies and bring them over.

The reward was certainly worth the trouble. Steve's eyes fell closed as he took his first bite, and he made the softest 'mmm' sound, like he was trying not to embarrass himself with something louder.

Bucky's cheeks burned, and he had to look away. He focused on twirling perfect bites of fettucini onto his fork as he ate, making only a few awkward glances at Steve's hands or mouth or eyes, until finally Steve broke the silence.

"So...Do you do this a lot? Cook for people?"

"God no. Just you, really."

Bucky realized that the answer made it clear how desperately single he was, but he had hoped it would make Steve happy.

It didn't.

Instead, Steve looked dismayed, maybe even angry, like Bucky had failed some kind of test.

But then, suddenly earnest, Steve said, "It's their loss, you know. You're really good at this."

Mystified and pleased, Bucky could only say, "Thanks."

"Maybe we can go buy groceries tomorrow, if you want to cook more."

"Sure. Yeah. That'd be great." Any day. Every day. Forever. "I'll make a list."

"Of course you will." Steve grinned and pushed away from the counter. "Ready start taping the next bedroom?"

"Nooo, we need to wash the dishes first."

"Oh. Right." He glanced guiltily at the plates. "Sorry, I was just--"

"Nah, I get it. You've got a lot going on, you get distracted."

"I'm kind of always like that," Steve said with an uncomfortable shrug.

"I know." Bucky smiled and tapped his temple. "You've always got a lot going on."

"Jesus," Steve whispered, as if to himself. "You're so...You're a great friend, Buck."

"It's really lovely of you to say that. You still have to rinse and dry, though, so, grab a towel."

Steve rolled his eyes, but a smile broke through anyway. "You're a _pretty good_ friend."

"Towel, Steve."

"A very okay friend."

That idea of doing this every night came back again. While Steve laughed and found a towel, Bucky filled the sink, and thought about curling up together and binge-watching tv shows. He'd bring his bed over since Steve liked it so much, and…

Wait a damn minute.

"You don't have _any_ furniture?"

Steve snorted and handed over their dirty glasses. "Couldn't exactly fit a table and chairs on my bike."

"So you've been, what, sleeping on the floor?"

"Look, Bucky, it's--"

"Do not try to tell me it's fine."

"--not that bad," he finished, tilting his chin up, spoiling for a fight.

Bucky stared at him.

Steve stared back. "I got plenty of sleep the last two nights, so if I miss a few hours--"

"You got plenty of sleep because you were in a bed!" Bucky washed the glasses and plates, but he couldn't let this go. "Why not just stay at my place?"

"Jesus Buck, I can't ask you for that!"

Bucky rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. "Fine. I can."

"What--"

"Please come to my place and sleep in a real bed. I can take the couch." When Steve scowled, Bucky let his shoulders sag and added, "Code blue, okay? That panic attack last night...It was bad before you came, and I don't want to be alone."

It was the honest fucking truth, so he might as well use it for a good cause.

Besides, Steve was the only person he knew who could look so angry and so concerned, all at the same time. It was worth it just to see that expression on his face again.

"You're sure that's what you want?" Steve asked, all the anger melting away.

"Absolutely," Bucky said. They'd already spent two nights together, a few more wouldn't be a problem. "It'll be fine."

It _was_ fine. Finishing the dishes was fine. Waiting for Steve to pack his things was fine. Carrying everything back to his loft was fine.

After that, nothing was fine.

Of course it wasn't.

Those other two nights, Steve had turned up late and collapsed, half-asleep before he hit the bed.

Those nights hadn't been _this._

 _This_ was watching Steve put lotion on his freckled, pristine face. This was getting caught watching, and then seeing Steve stick his tongue out at him in the mirror. This was laughing together, too close and too soft.

This was a disaster of tenderness and want, crashing in on him.

"So, I was gonna…" Bucky held out his bundle of clothes and said helplessly, "Pajamas."

Steve nodded. "Sure. Sure, me too. You can...in here and I'll…" He backed toward the door and out of the bathroom, still nodding. "Be just a minute," he finished, closing the door behind him.

Bucky blew all of the breath out of his lungs, since he hadn't been using any of it, and quickly changed into a soft old t-shirt and worn black sweats. It was more than he would normally wear, but the last thing he needed was to feel Steve's toes against his bare skin in the night.

He washed his hands again. He didn't know why, it just seemed like a thing to do.

They'd had tons of sleepovers when they were kids. They could do the same as adults. They already had, twice.

With another deep breath, he knocked on the door.

"I'm good," Steve called.

Bucky refrained from agreeing out loud. He made his way confidently to the bed, where Steve was sitting, watching and swinging his bare feet, when he remembered his fucking arm and made a detour to the couch.

He unfastened the straps that held the arm in place and cradled it in his elbow as it released. It always felt heavier this way, like taking it off gave it more gravity.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Steve's feet were still now, toes curled, and he knew without looking that Steve's eyes were fixed on him.

He'd never done this in front of anyone before. Even when Misty and Claire made adjustments for him, he took the arm off in private. It was so strange to think that Steve was more used to seeing him without it than with it.

The arm didn't fit well on the back of the couch. It took him two tries to balance it there instead of on the seat where he usually put it, and another try after he plugged in the charger. He rolled down the silicone sheath that went underneath, careful not to pinch himself, and peeled it off, too, setting it with the arm.

The couch wasn't an ideal place for spending the night. He'd tried a few times, in a hopeless quest for the magical set of circumstances that would let him sleep easily. It was too short, and too lumpy, too unfamiliar. But at least he wouldn't risk embarrassing himself in his sleep.

He was just about to lower himself down onto it when Steve said, "For fucks sake, it's your bed, Bucky. We can share."

Bucky turned to frown at him, and heard a soft thump from behind.

His arm had fallen down from the back of the couch, and landed neatly where his head would have been if he'd tried to sleep there.

With a sigh of defeat, Bucky left it where it fell and went to the bed. He gave Steve a nudge. "For fucks sake, it's my bed, Steve. You can share."

Steve laughed, scooted to the other side and wriggled his way under the covers, which was a relief, since it meant that the clingy shorts he'd changed into were hidden from sight.

It also meant that once Bucky climbed in, he could feel the radiant warmth of him, a lovely contrast to the cool sheets, just barely out of reach.

Great.

He was about to ask if Steve wanted to watch something, when Steve reached over and turned off the bedside lamp. Bucky would have laughed, if it was funny at all. He held himself very still, and tried not to breathe too loudly. If this was like either of the previous nights, then any second now, Steve would drift…

"It was Mom's idea," Steve said. "The moisturizer."

Bucky closed his eyes. It wasn't fair, the way the grief seemed to hit Steve with no warning, kicked off by almost anything, or by nothing at all. "Yeah?"

"She sort of insisted, when I started surfing. She said that if I was going to get eaten by sharks, I should at least make sure they didn't have to chew too hard."

He laughed then, a sad, broken laugh, and Bucky rolled toward him without a thought, reaching out to comfort him however he could.

He rested his stump on Steve's shoulder, and felt him take a tight breath.

"When does it get better?"

Bucky wished he had an answer. "I don't know. But I think it hasn't been as long as it feels."

"It's been forever."

"I know." He shifted closer, tucking himself against Steve's side. "I know."


	8. Chapter 8

He was awake enough to know that he was in Bucky's bed. To know that his hand was tucked under Bucky's shirt. To know that Bucky's ribs expanded under his fingers with every slow breath.

He wasn't awake enough to worry about any of that. Not yet.

He remembered being lulled by Bucky's close presence, and eventually falling into a light sleep. At one point he opened his eyes to the bright glow of a phone nearby, and silently watched as Bucky smashed blocks in some game for a while. Later, he'd woken to the sound of Bucky mumbling emphatically in his sleep, and had hugged him until he went quiet again.

Or maybe he hadn't stopped at all. Maybe he was still hugging him. That was a nice thought. So nice that he tightened his grip a bit, slipping his hand…

Oh.

His hand was tucked under Bucky's shirt.

Bucky's ribs expanded under his fingers in a quick breath.

Bucky's hand pressed against his own, and held it in place.

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"We're awake?"

"I...yeah."

"M'kay."

Steve tried to imagine what a normal response to this situation would be. "Shower?"

"M'kay."

Shower, then. Okay. Steve forced himself out of the warm bed and made his way across the room. Surprisingly, so did Bucky, despite seeming more asleep than awake.

It wasn't until they were both in the bathroom, and Steve turned to see Bucky pulling his shirt off, that he realized what was going on.

He hadn't been awake for five minutes. He wasn't prepared to deal with seeing Bucky's well defined abs, the flat half-circle of his navel, the trail of soft hair that started just beneath it.

He must have stared too long. Bucky crossed his arm over himself and said, "What?" 

"Nothing." Steve pulled off his own shirt and tossed it in the corner. "I just didn't realize we were sharing."

"You...Oh." Bucky blushed, right down his chest. "I thought it was some California thing. Saving water."

Steve couldn't help but grin. "You wanna save water with me, Buck?"

"Think I'll just wait my turn," Bucky said breathlessly. He walked back without turning, without looking away, glancing over each of Steve's tattoos as he went, until he finally pulled the door closed.

The joy of having Bucky look at him like that was the most uncomplicated thing Steve had felt since before Mom's diagnosis. He did his best to hold onto the feeling, refusing to analyze it or worry over it, all through his shower. It was better to focus on Bucky. Generous, caring, wonderful Bucky, who looked amazing, in his shirt or out of it.

Steve toweled off with a smile on his lips. He had another whole day with Bucky ahead of him. Maybe he could even get him to blush again.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and went back into the bedroom, calling out, "All yours."

Bucky didn't blush.

Bucky wasn't there.

"Buck?"

His arm wasn't on the couch, Steve noticed uneasily, and neither was the plastic-y sleeve that he wore underneath it. The bed was neatly made, with nobody under the covers. And on top of Steve's duffle was a folded piece of paper, the kind from the notebook Bucky kept in his pocket.

Still holding his towel up with one hand, Steve picked up the note and read it.

_I know it's shitty of me to leave like this, but I couldn't stay._

_The thing is, I would love to save water with you. More than you could know. But I don't do casual anymore, and you're leaving._

_I'm sorry._

Steve set the note down.

He felt like he'd been slapped.

He felt like he deserved to be slapped.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

He closed his eyes until the blind panic passed, until the klaxon in his mind screaming that he had _hurt Bucky_ quieted enough for him to think again, and he remembered the one thing that he should always do when he knew he'd made a mess of everything.

He texted Sam.

Steve - _I fucked up and I don't know how to fix it_

After he sent it, he looked back over several unanswered texts from Sam, each of them full of concern for him, and he winced.

Steve - _Also sorry for missing all your texts_

Sam - _hng on_

_coffee_

_brb, you go ahead_

Steve winced again.

Steve - _forgot the time zones, sorry for that too_

Sam - _stop that, I know things have been rough. now shut up and tell me what's wrong_

Steve - ... _you're gonna have to pick one, i can't do both_

Sam - _seriously it's 4 am, what's this about_

Steve - _it's about Bucky_

He sat on the end of the bed, and was still trying to think of a way to explain when Sam texted back.

Sam - _I don't know who that is_

Steve - _He was my best friend when I lived here. That doesn't really do it justice though. you ever think about how loaded the term 'heart defect' is?_

Sam - _...Not until now_

Steve - _I never felt defective when I was with him. We just fit together. Perfectly. And if I could fit so well with someone like Bucky, then maybe I was okay. Maybe even better than okay._

Sam - _Wow. All right._

Steve - _What_

Sam - _Just wasn't expecting a soliloquy. Sounds like you really loved him._

Steve - _we were kids_

Sam - _and?_

There wasn't much point in discussing whether kids could fall in love. It didn't matter now.

Steve - _And I moved away. When Pestilence finally went into wide release, Howard wanted to do a sequel. Mom agreed. the only reason we had moved out here was so she could take care of Aunt Janet_

Sam - _I didn't know you had an aunt_

Steve - _mom's sister. she died the first year we were here. breast cancer, same as her. 32 years old._

Sam - _jesus_

Steve - _yeah_

There was a long break as Sam typed.

Sam - _and Bucky's still there_

Steve - _still here. still a perfect fit_

He shifted, uncomfortable in just a damp towel. He wished he'd gotten dressed. Bucky's note was sitting on top of his duffle again, an insurmountable barrier.

Sam - _Steve. You have to tell me what happened if you want me to help_

Steve - _I know._

Sam - _okay_

Steve - _Basically I offered to take a shower together. Only, I made it into a joke, and he said no, and it was fine. But when I finished he was gone, and there was a note. Hang on I'll show it to you_

He spread it on his knee and took a picture. It didn't come out great, but it hurt less than writing down what Bucky had said.

Sam - _ouch_

Steve - _he thinks I'm casual about this, about HIM, and I'm not. At all._

Sam - _but he's right, you're not staying_

Steve tried to imagine it. No more clients. No more glittering parties. 

That didn't sound so bad.

No more 2 AM calls from Tony. 

No more backslaps from Thor. No more of Clint's jokes. No Lucky. 

No palm trees. No rainbow flags.

No Natasha and Wanda. No Sam and Riley. No sprawling dinners with everyone at the tea shop.

It had taken him years to make a place for himself with all of them, but they were family now. The only family he had left.

Steve - _I can't._

Sam - Y _ou tempted?_

Steve - _God yes. In spite of everything. I don't know how he survives here. He's so alone. If it wasn't for his family, I'd ask him to come back with me_

Sam - _maybe you should tell him that_

Steve - _That would only make it hurt more_

Sam - _Maybe, maybe not. Do you know when you'll see him again?_

Steve - _We were supposed to have dinner at the house_

Sam - _then you've got some time to get your head together and decide what you want to say_

Steve - _sure, i can write scripts while i paint my old room_

Sam - _not my idea of a good time_

Steve - _it's not so bad. Better with Bucky. I think he's the only reason I haven't fallen apart completely_

Sam - _there's something for your script_

Steve - _Yeah. Guess I should get to work, then. Thanks Sam. I owe you._

Sam - _yeah, well, send me pictures of all this work you're doing and we can call it even. And turn on your fucking notifications_

Steve - _Pictures will take a few minutes_

It was probably better not to explain that he was in Bucky's bedroom, with no clothes on.

Sam - _And_

With a heavy sigh, Steve changed his settings, and sent a screenshot to show that his fucking notifications were on.

Sam - _Thank you. I'll just watch the sunrise while I wait for the rest_

Steve sent back a thumbs up emoji and hurried to get dressed.


	9. Chapter 9

It was cold in the house.

Bucky wondered if Steve had been the only thing keeping it warm the past few days. Without him here…

It didn't help that his hair was still wet. There had only been a hand towel hanging in Steve's bathroom, so he'd had to make do. It was either that or go back to his loft, to Steve and the note and the awful pit of longing in his chest.

It was a harder choice than he would have expected, but he stayed in Steve's kitchen, writing out a grocery list. He tried not to remember the way Steve had smiled at him when they'd talked about it last night, just like he tried not to remember the last thing he'd written on this pad of paper.

_I couldn't stay. I'm sorry. I would love...love...more than you could know...I would love_

"Bucky?"

He jumped, and turned around to see Steve looking at him wide eyed.

It occurred to him then that he hadn't even mentioned where he'd gone. He'd left Steve alone, to think whatever terrible things he might be thinking, when he knew damn well that Steve was still caught on the jagged edges of mourning for his mom.

It got worse.

Steve put his arms out automatically, just like he always did these days, only this time he froze halfway, and his expression, which had been one of relief, turned hurt and lost.

Luckily, being Steve, he was also reckless and brave. He turned his palms up, with his arms still out, and left the decision to Bucky.

That was an easy choice. Bucky stepped up and hugged Steve so fiercely that they both staggered under the weight of it.

Into his shoulder, Steve said, "Bucky, I didn't mean--"

"Do we have to talk about it?"

Steve stepped back to arm's length, looking lost again. He took a breath to say something, but whatever it was got interrupted by the buzz of a text message. He took another step back as he got his phone out and fired off a quick reply.

"I was making a list for the grocery store," Bucky said as Steve finished, steering the conversation far away from the whole _I would love_ situation. "Did you want to go to the hardware store, too? I know we need flooring for in here, and I'm not sure if there's enough tape for all the rooms, and there's the baseboards…" He trailed off, realizing just how overwhelmed Steve must be, and said lightly, "You want me to make a list?"

Steve clenched his jaw and twisted his lips, not overwhelmed, but suddenly angry.

It wasn't the response Bucky'd been hoping for.

"You know what she said to me?" Steve asked, his voice low and bitter. "She said, 'I've got just a few last chores for you, sweetheart.' And then she handed me the deed to this place. She didn't even give me a reason. She just left me with this fucking mess, this fucking house, in the middle of fucking nowhere, with her last few fucking chores. Why the hell would she do this to me? Why would she keep this place? What the hell was she thinking?"

There was no good answer, but he had to say something. "I don't know. There's nothing here worth coming back for," Bucky said. That only got him a fierce glare, so he tried again. "I think...she was happy here, is all. At least some of the time, she was. Look--"

He pulled the picture out of his jacket pocket. The one he'd printed out before the memorial. It was a little worse for wear, having been tucked in with his notebook for the last few days, but not too tattered yet. He unfolded it and held it out.

Steve opened one of his fists and took it, scowling down to see his mother's bright, mischievous smile as she peeked out of her kitchen window on a foggy morning, years ago. He ran his fingers down the edge of the paper. "Oh." He gave an empty, desolate laugh. "That's fucking perfect."

"What? I don't--"

"It's you," Steve said, focusing all the unbearable sadness in his eyes right on Bucky.

"Me?"

"You. You're the one who made her smile like that. You're what's worth coming back here for. _You._ I ruined my chance already, but she was right, if I could be with you I'd--" He snapped his mouth shut, so hard Bucky could hear his teeth clack.

"You'd what?"

His voice came out even, in spite of everything. In spite of the whirlwind of loneliness and fear and want that spun inside him. In spite of the sadness still in Steve's eyes, the way his jaw slowly relaxed and his lips parted. The way Steve flexed his fingers, no longer white knuckled fists, but stretching gently as if he wanted to reach out for the softest touch. Despite all that, Bucky's voice didn't tremble the way he would have expected. Not even when he whispered, "Steve?"

"I'd tell you how sweet you are," Steve said quietly. "You're the sweetest person I know, so I'd tell you all the time. I'd hug you whenever you let me. Sing you songs. I'd...I don't know, I guess I'd ask you to make me a list, because I don't have a plan. But whatever I did, I'd make damn sure to show you that what we have isn't casual. It never has been. Not for me."

Bucky was going to have to blink, and possibly inhale, too, but that didn't seem to be an option right now. "What do...I mean, you aren't...you can't stay here, it's...and I…"

"I know, you have family," Steve said. "I told Sam--"

"I've never even had a boyfriend, really, I'm not...Wait, family?"

"Never…" Steve swallowed hard. "Never?"

"It's not like I haven't done anything," Bucky said, rolling his eyes and hoping Steve wouldn't notice he was blushing. "I've done plenty. Just, it was all stuff you can do in the bathroom at the bar. Not stuff like holding hands at the movies, or...I don't know, boyfriend things."

"Boyfriend things," Steve repeated. He looked away, carefully setting the picture on the kitchen counter. "Was that...Are you saying you want to go to the movies?"

Bucky hadn't been sure what he was saying at all, but that probably wasn't it. "Not really? We've got a house that needs work, but if...Do you? Want to go to the movies?"

"I don't care where we go," Steve said earnestly. "I just wish I could hold your hand."

"Oh." Boyfriend things, he was volunteering for boyfriend things, and Bucky's heart had been through too much already. Hardly breathing, he said, "I don't think we need a movie for that."

"Oh." Steve reached out slowly, like this wasn't something that even kindergarteners do, like it was something meaningful, something momentous. Bucky and Bucky's heart could both appreciate that, so he reached out even slower, letting himself recover from all the shock.

Then Steve stopped. Their fingers were barely two inches apart, and he stopped cold, looking at Bucky with terrible solemnity. "Bucky, I can't stay. I'm sorry, I--"

"I don't want you to, it's terrible here." Two fucking inches away, and it may as well be miles.

"You could come with me."

"What?"

"After this place sells. It could be like a vacation. There's plenty of room for you in Mom's condo. Stay as long as you want."

Two fucking inches. Then one. Then none. 

It was something simple. Something momentous. And Bucky's heart suddenly felt like it had been in the right place all along. With Steve.

"Wait," Bucky said, looking up from their hands to Steve's face "You're staying in your mom's condo?"

Steve swiped his hair back with his free hand. "No? I don't know, I already have it, and good houses aren't cheap out there."

"What about houses that need a lot of fixing up?" Bucky said, looking around at the unfinished kitchen floor.

"Still not cheap, but cheaper. I'd need help, though."

His smile gave Bucky all the hope he needed to go on. "I've got a camper we could use. We could even bring your favorite mattress."

Steve squeezed his hand. "Pretty sure it's only my favorite because I shared it with you."

"So we're just gonna leave it--"

"No! I love that mattress!"

"Then we'll bring it."

"We will."

With a deep breath, Bucky gathered his courage, which was easier to do with Steve by his side, and said, "You know, if I stay as long as I want, then I'll never leave."

"Stay as long as you want," Steve repeated firmly.

Bucky laughed. Steve's hand was still warm in his own, and Steve was smiling, and the future was full of joy and fun and not-casual boyfriend things.

"Sounds great," Bucky said. "Let's get started."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for the kudos and the wonderful comments!!! You guys are so great, and I'm lucky to have you as readers.


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